by Jo Beverley
“Luck’s favored me so far.”
“Luck!” She turned away to hide her tears. “Oh, go away, you wretch, and good riddance.”
But when she heard the gate creak, it broke her heart.
* * *
Hermione stayed where she was until she’d conquered her tears and then hurried into the house. She tried to find the anger she’d used as a barrier against him. Spicy indeed. Only a wretch would refer to her folly like that. Anger turned irreversibly to worry, however, even dread. She remembered his throat-slitting gesture back in Ardwick. She’d doubted it then, but no longer. He could be going to his death, and there was nothing she could do about it.
She took refuge in her room, looking down at the Ferry Inn as if doing so could keep him safe, trying to think of some way to avert fate. Why was she always so powerless in her life? She’d not been able to prevent Roger dying, or Jermyn, or her father and mother. She’d failed to discover coal. She’d probably fail to cure Edgar. . . .
She pulled herself out of her dismal mood. “Spicy” gave her an idea of something that might help. The cook here, Mrs. Kenwick, was an amiable woman who produced good, plain food, but Hermione was worried by Edgar’s poor appetite. The antimony with opium was improving him, but he needed nourishment. She went to the kitchen.
“Do you know any spicy dishes, Mrs. Kenwick?”
“Cinnamon cakes, milady?”
“No, I mean pepper or Eastern dishes.”
“Sorry, milady, but I can’t say as I do.”
Hermione smiled to reassure her. “And why should you? But I think we should try to add some stronger flavors to Mr. Peake’s food. I’m sure oriental food is spicier and he may have become accustomed to that.”
“I’ll see what I can do, milady,” the cook said, “but it’s not what I’m used to for an invalid.”
“Perhaps we can find advice in Liverpool, with so many vessels there from around the world.”
Hermione went to Edgar’s room to ask him, but also to check that he was out of his bed. She’d coaxed him into spending time in a chair yesterday, and even walking around the room a little. She suspected some of his weakness was from lying in bed all the time. Now he was taking his medicine again, he had a bit more strength.
He was sitting in his big chair, watching the river. She wasn’t sure watching the river was healthy for him, but he had to look at something.
She went to sit nearby. “Do you have some favorite Eastern dishes?”
“Don’t care if I ever eat again.”
“Well, I do. I’m going to send George to Liverpool to seek out an Indian cook.”
“I keep telling you, I didn’t spend much time in India, and I don’t like curries, so stop this.”
“Where did you spend much time?” she persisted.
“Here and there. Stop pestering me.”
She did, but she returned to the kitchen to pore over the few cookery books. She found some recipes for curry, but little else except a few using ginger and cayenne.
“Very well, Mrs. Kenwick, we’ll improvise. I want you to add cayenne to your excellent ragout of chicken. Ginger, too. Then for a sweet, make an especially rich cinnamon pudding with rum sauce.”
“For an invalid, milady?”
“We can only try. He’s not eating much as it is.”
Hermione had taken to eating her dinner with Edgar in his room. That night he didn’t comment on the ragout or the pudding, but he ate a little more of both and drank some claret she’d had opened.
Then he surprised her. “What if we went in search of that Grammaticus?”
“In search? How?”
“At the last place we know of. The Curious Creatures in London.”
“London! You can’t travel there.”
“I can sit in a chair, so I can sit in a coach.”
She hated to mention it, but said, “The medicine will make it difficult.”
“Spewing and liquid bowels? I’ll stop taking it before it gets a hold on me.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. You can watch me die here, or you can take me to London.” He had on his stubborn face, but it relaxed into wistfulness. “I’ve not seen London for fifty years. Sailed into Liverpool nigh on a year ago, and I’ve been stuck here since. I want to see the gaslit streets and all the fine new buildings. The London Docks.”
“Docks?” she said, bemused by anyone wanting to see those, but she couldn’t resist the yearning in his voice. He’d been a man of action all his life. No wonder he wanted to take action now. Instead of lingering here until he died, he wanted to embark on another adventure—a quest that might kill him but that held the slim hope of a grand reward.
“How would we travel?” she asked.
“The same way anyone does. Hire a chaise.”
“Just the two of us? Edgar, I’m sorry, but—”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’ll need Peter. You’ll need a maid. A coach, then. Not hired. Buy it.”
“Buy a coach?”
“Hard to hire a coach for a long journey. Probably only get it for a stage or two, then have to settle into a new one. Buy one. Sell it in London. I’ve done that sort of thing before.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but it would be very expensive.” He’d never given a hint about how much money he had.
“I’ve money enough for that. Peter! My writing desk.”
Edgar was suddenly full of vigor and she could imagine how he’d been in his prime, but she could also imagine this burning him into a collapse.
His servant arranged his writing things, but when Edgar picked up the pen, he dropped it. “Plaguey hands too weak. You write for me.”
Hermione arranged the desk on her lap and at his dictation wrote a letter to his solicitor in Liverpool requesting him to purchase a comfortable traveling carriage for him at whatever cost necessary, and to have it delivered here with four post-horses as soon as possible along with four hundred pounds, transported securely. The sum made her stare, but she wrote it before commenting.
“That’s a great deal of money, Edgar. Will it be safe?”
“Should be, unless you or Peter decide to run off with it. New letter. To my bank.” That was authorizing his solicitor to draw the funds to cover the purchase and the hire of the first set of horses, plus the money.
Hermione sanded the letters, wondering whether she should try to prevent this extravagance. She’d seen no evidence that Edgar Peake had huge wealth, so he might be spending the last of his money on this wild venture, leaving nothing for Polly. It was his money, however, and if he wanted to spend it in pursuit of a cure for his disease and to enjoy illuminated streets, it was his right.
She took the letters to him for his signature, which he made carefully. “Want them to recognize it.”
As she folded the letters, he picked up his seal. She dripped melted wax over the edge and he stamped it. The design was some kind of oriental letter.
“On the journey, you can tell me all your adventures,” she said.
“Not all of ’em,” he said with a chuckle, eyes still bright with pleasure at their enterprise. “Send the footman across to Liverpool at first light tomorrow to deliver those. We might even have the coach by the end of the day.”
“You’re used to action, aren’t you?”
“Always have been. Hate lolling around. It’ll be good to be doing something, even if it kills me.”
She had to accept that. It was only as she went up to her room that she realized that she’d agreed to go to London, where, if Thayne was to be believed, enemies lurked. His, not hers, she told herself, but it was a good thing he was leaving tomorrow or he’d be back up to berate her.
Chapter 22
The next day Mark packed his valise and went down to pay his bill
. The postboy came by to leave a bag for Tranmere and Mark paused in case the letter had come at last. It had. Braydon had made it to London! Thank God he was alive, but as Mark broke the seal, he cursed him for being a slow correspondent.
He scanned the crisp writing until the important part jumped out at him:
Julius Waite returned to his London home along with Seth Boothroyd. Tregoven and Durrant returned to their separate lodgings at the same time. Solange Waite and Isaac Inkman have disappeared.
Though the words were clear, Mark reread them. How the hell had they been allowed to disappear?
He read on:
They arrived at the Swan with Two Necks two days after leaving Warrington and were observed, but by switching hackneys they gave the inept watchers the slip. The next day Seth Boothroyd disappeared from Waite’s house.
“Damn them all to hell,” Mark muttered, with the inept watchers particularly in mind. Clearly he hadn’t impressed upon anyone how clever Solange could be, but he’d not expected this twist and it alarmed him.
If Solange had broken free of Waite, she was embarked on some plan of her own, and it wouldn’t be mild or cautious. The urgent question was, had Solange summoned Seth Boothroyd to guard her, or to send him north to find his brother? Mark tossed the letter on the fire and watched it burn, caught between two imperatives. He was needed in London. Braydon was safely there, but he had only facts, not familiarity. Mark knew he’d have better insights that could be crucial in this emergency.
However, Hermione still wasn’t safe. Seth could be approaching Tranmere now, so how could he leave? Perhaps he was a traitor to his country, but he couldn’t leave Hermione unprotected under such an imminent threat.
He wrote to Braydon explaining the situation.
As for finding Solange and Isaac, he’ll need a laboratory. Investigate establishments that sell chemical equipment and supplies. Solange could disguise herself in many ways, so she is unlikely to be spotted by searchers. Isaac would be easier, but he’ll be happy to stay in whatever rooms they’re using. He likes a whore now and then. They’ll be brought in to him, but with his distinctive appearance, you might pick up a trail that way. Boothroyd won’t stay inside and is distinctive. Hawkinville should set people to search for him. As soon as I hear from you that he’s in London, I’ll travel south with all speed.
He sealed and sent the letter, telling himself that Solange, Isaac, and Boothroyd could be anywhere in the vastness of London, undetectable amid a million people. His being there to prowl the streets wouldn’t help.
He doubted anyone else would see it that way.
* * *
Hermione woke to her fifth day in Riverview House, determinedly not thinking about Thayne having left. It was better so. The footman set out on his errand to Liverpool and they could only wait for the results. In the meantime, she tried to persuade Edgar to take the medicine for one more day.
“Why? We’re going to London to find Grammaticus.”
“It might take days for us to begin our journey.”
“I’ll have someone’s guts if it does.”
“I can see you’re accustomed to being a tyrant.”
“When necessary.”
“At least continue with the opium. Remember how your joints ached? That will make traveling hard.”
“Trying to addict me? Then you’ll have me dancing to your tune.”
“If you can dance, I’ll be delighted.”
That won her one of his dry laughs. “You’re a saucy piece. So like my Anne. Stupid woman to marry a man who’d lock her in a box.”
“Perhaps she didn’t realize until too late.”
“You watch yourself, then. Suitors are tricksy.”
“I’ll be careful—if I come across any.”
“You will in London.”
“Seeking an eccentric society and a quack doctor?”
“Some eccentric gentleman might take a fancy to you. Peter!”
“Yes, sir.”
“The brown box in the bottom drawer.”
As the servant found the box, Hermione wondered what new wonders might appear. She’d been tempted to explore the drawer that had contained the sandalwood fan.
This time the box wasn’t a work of art. It was long, shallow, and made of plain dark wood with a solid lock. The servant also brought something else, an ovoid wooden shape. Despite his darkened and gnarled fingers, Edgar manipulated the shape, sliding pieces in and out and around in a pattern she couldn’t follow. Then it opened like a flower revealing several keys nestled within. He chose one and unlocked the plain box. When he opened it, she saw a slender dagger settled in red silk.
“It’s beautiful,” Hermione said, because it was, in a lethal sort of way.
The hilt was of gold, or a gold-colored metal, set with tiny plates of jewel-colored glass. They might, perhaps, be paper-thin jewels. The blade was about eight inches long and slender, with an unusual rippling form. A design of silver and black followed the ripples all along it.
“Pick it up,” Edgar said, “but respect it. It’s sharp.”
Hermione obeyed. She’d never expected a weapon to feel so comfortable in her hand. She’d held pistols, which were too heavy, and a sword that had felt unwieldy. This felt . . . right.
“It’s a kris, from Java,” Edgar said. “A lady’s kris.”
“Women go armed in Java?”
“Some of them.”
“Why do you have a lady’s weapon?” she asked, turning her hand so light played on the subtle patterns in the metal of the blade. They reminded her of watered silk.
“I forget,” he said. She didn’t believe him. “You might as well have it if you’re to be dealing with suitors.”
“I’ve never found them as dangerous as that.”
“London suitors,” he said, but he meant something else.
“You’re being mysterious, Edgar. Why?”
He shrugged. “You’re worried about things, and not all of them my health. Paying attention to worries has kept me alive a time or two.” He paused, perhaps hoping for an explanation. When she didn’t give it, he said, “We’re going to the wicked city. Won’t hurt to have a weapon there.”
It certainly wouldn’t. Trying to hide her reactions, Hermione touched the blade with a finger and cut herself. It was too shallow a cut to bleed, but then, she’d hardly touched it. “It will hurt to have this one,” she protested.
“There’s a sheath in the lid.”
There was, of something hard and light covered with red velvet on the outside. She slid the blade into it, feeling softness inside.
“Silk wool. Find a way to wear it beneath your clothing. It’ll do you no good in a drawer.”
She thought of the abduction. It wouldn’t have helped at first, but perhaps when the brute had dropped her on the ground like a sack, she could have got the weapon out. “I don’t know how to use a blade.”
“We’re not talking about fencing. If you’re in danger, don’t fiddle around threatening someone. He’ll take it off you. Stick it in, and stick it in hard. A kris is strong and sharp. It goes through clothes and flesh like a knife through soft cheese, and it’ll go through some bones, too.”
She drew the blade out again. It looked so delicate, but she could sense its lethal power. “I don’t know. . . .”
“Don’t be a milksop. Traditionally, it’s worn at the back, tucked into a belt. Find a way to wear it. I’ll not go to London without.”
“You’re the one who wants to go.”
“But you want me to.”
“You’re a scheming, conniving old reprobate.”
He showed his long teeth. “And more than a match for you. Go and sort out that blade.”
She took the box up to her room, imagining what Polly would say to the idea of her sister going armed. Polly wouldn’t be happy
about any part of the enterprise. She wasn’t heartless enough to wish the old man dead before his time, but she hadn’t spent enough time with Edgar Peake to become fond. Polly had been soothed by the belief that Edgar didn’t have more than a comfortable income, but when Hermione thought of his cavalier decision to buy a coach and the way he was ordering lawyers and bankers around, she wasn’t so sure.
That puzzle box held quite a number of keys and each could unlock a treasure. It was his money, she reminded herself, earned through a lifetime of hard work and danger. It wasn’t hers or Polly’s to pine over.
In any case, he wouldn’t go to London unless she was wearing the dagger. In the small of her back? It wouldn’t show beneath the fullness at the back of her high-waisted gowns, but it would make sitting in a coach uncomfortable and she couldn’t think how she’d get at it there. She had to assume that women in Java wore belted garments and wore the kris in open view. She couldn’t do that, but Edgar wouldn’t go to London unless she had the kris on her. What about her pockets? In a day dress she wore a pair beneath her gown and could reach into them through a slit in the side of the dress. She put the sheathed kris in the right-hand one, but the hilt poked out.
Then she saw the solution. She took out her small sewing case and unpicked a little of the seam at the bottom of her right-hand pocket. She stitched around it to make it secure and then slid the kris through almost to the hilt. The sheath was trapped, and the hilt would be easy to reach. She studied herself in the mirror. It didn’t show. She sat down. It felt a little awkward, but it would do.
Thinking of her abduction, she drew the blade as she might have done that day. Again, it felt comfortable in her hand, but could she thrust it into someone’s body? It would slide through cloth and flesh, but could she actually do it? She hoped never to find out, but as she eased the blade back into the sheath, she had to admit she felt comforted.
Chapter 23
Mark had resisted the temptation to go up to the Riverview House gardens, even though he’d seen Hermione out there in the afternoon. She would believe he’d left, and it was better so. He went out to walk around Tranmere on his spurious task, but also to check for strangers in the area, but his mind kept drifting to Hermione, even to the impossible prospect of claiming her for his own one day.